Page 1 of Distortion
PROLOGUE
‘Iwant my mom.’
I draw my knees up to my chest and rock in the chair, breathing in the unfamiliar scents of disinfectant and the stale smell of nicotine. The doctor, or one of the orderlies is a smoker. They just had a cigarette, too, I’ll bet. The smell is all around me. It’s strong and it makes me want to plug up my nose. The chair under me has a leather seat and back, but it’s hard and it slips, making it difficult to sit in it comfortably.
I close my eyes a little under the fluorescents in the office. They’re harsher than the ones I have to deal with every day in school. I didn’t think that was possible, but as I try to keep my gaze away from the glare of them, I’m sure it’s not just the fact that I’m tired and scared. They emit a low buzzing sound, too. Not for the first time today, I wish I could shut off all my senses.
I shift, trying to make my jeans gain purchase on the seat as I take in more of my surroundings. I try to find something, anything I can focus on that doesn’t make me feel worse. But it’s too hard. Even my favorite jeans aren’t comfortable rightnow. They might as well be made of sandpaper. The tag on the back of my new shirt with the landmarks of London in it that Mom bought me tickles the nape of my neck for the thousandth time today. I asked Mom to cut it off this morning, but John told her not to. My shoes are too tight and my socks feel wrong. I blame him for that as well. He wouldn’t let me fix them before we left the hotel this morning. Said we were in a hurry and he wasn’t going to be late because of me.
As usual, Mom did what he wanted.
I try not to think about John. He’s an asshole and thoughts of him will get me worked up even more.
How long am I going to be here?
Mom and John told me this was a sightseeing and shopping trip, but as soon as we were done in London, they brought me to this place. They left me in the car and, at first, I’d thought John just needed to have an impromptu work meeting. He’s in pharmaceuticals and I’m pretty sure he said he had a board meeting sometime today, so it was logical to assume.
But then two men in white uniforms came out and ordered me out of the car. When I resisted, I was dragged from it and they locked my arms behind my back. I screamed for my mom, but she didn’t come. I was marched up the impressive stone steps and into the building I thought was a stately home like one of the ones we saw while we were exploring the capital. There was a sign that said, ‘The Heath’.
But once we got inside, I saw it for what it was.
The Heath is an institution. I can tell because it looks like they do in the movies down to the off-white linoleum floors.
John threatened to send me somewhere more than once, but I hadn’t realized how serious he was, and I’d thought Mom would ...
‘Do you know where you are, Marguerite?’
My eyes find the doctor who’s sitting at his desk. He’swearing a white coat over a suit with a name badge that says, ‘Dr. Stoke’. He’s got sandy hair that’s greying at his temples and long features with an angular nose. The rest of his body looks a little too short for his face.
‘I want my mom,’ I say again.
‘Your mother and father have brought you to us to be cared for and treated for your condition. Do you know where you are?’ Doctor Stoke asks again.
‘John isn’t my father.’
Doctor Stoke seems to puff up in his chair. ‘You’re new here, so it’ll take you some time to learn the rules, Miss Novelle, but when I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it.’
I’m not a Novelle.
I say nothing, but my arms flail a bit, and I look at the desk.
Stoke lets out a long breath. ‘I can see that Doctor Novelle wasn’t exaggerating when he explained your case, Marguerite. Looks like we’re going to have our work cut out for us.’
He smiles.
I don’t like it.
‘But, not to worry. We’re very good at what we do here.’
What do they do here?
But I don’t ask. I want my mom.
Stoke stands up and I see that I was right. His body doesn’t look in proportion to his face. He’s probably not much taller than me and I’m five foot. He moves around the desk slowly, but my eyes don’t leave it’s dark wooden surface as I catalogue the items on it.
A laptop.
A white spot lamp.
